Thank you for being alive today. Thank you for continuing to try. Thank you for breathing the same air I do, and I hope you have wonderful dreams when you sleep because you deserve them.
Peeta is a 1000% done with Katniss(but will still do anything for her)
"what music do you like?" is such a stressful question like what do you want to know??? genres?? artists?? albums??? time periods?? 25 most played?? what i’m currently listening to??? what i listen to at different times of the day?? be more specific??????
I think that if voldemort really wanted to kill harry potter the night the spell didn’t work on him he could’ve just picked him up and thrown him out a window given the fact that he was a one year old infant
It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.
the walking dad
whatever happens here, we remain.
imagine trying to take a shit while in the arena
like with cameras everywhere and the constant fear of being killed
and like what would happen if someone popped up and killed you mid poop
and you became know as the person who died mid poop during the hunger games
You’re not a REAL Gatsby fan unless you’ve read the book. Unless you’ve read every Fitzgerald book. Unless you’ve read their early drafts, mailed to you by Fitzgerald himself. Unless you first read Gatsby when Scott handed it to you in a Parisian bar in 1925, apologising for the cover when he saw you disapproved. Unless you embarked on an intense friendship with him that culminated in rumours that you two were having a clandestine homosexual affair. Unless you once took him to the Louvre so you could prove to him that his penis wasn’t any smaller than those on the statues there. Unless Scott turned up, drunk and uninvited, at your house so many times that you had to move more than once. Unless you continued to exchange increasingly infrequent and terse letters with him for the rest of his life, then missed his funeral because you were in Cuba. Unless you called his literary talent “as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings” and won a Nobel prize and wrote For Whom The Bell Tolls. That’s right, you poser, if you’re not Ernest Hemingway you can fuck straight off right now. We’re on to you.